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    let our mouth spill out
    let our voices keep not shut
    let our hands cleave to the strings
    and plunck the tune of sandstorm.
    eerisome winds choked us,
    we quiver at it spiritual torrent,
    our farmlands became barren,
    a result from it unending strike.
    we reside in the phobia of sandstorm,
    like Jerry afraid of the bully; Tom,
    our anxiety decends like drizzling rain,
    yet our farmlands die of drought.
    dearth came visiting our land,
    our stomach in pain, grumbles loud
    we are a vegetable garden,
    whose fate is determined by the rumbling cloud.
    When will our land be fertile?
    So we could plant on a rich soil
    Till the earth to our best,
    And come out with a great harvest.
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  • Oyin Young: Wednesday, 29 March 2017 at 23:27:00
  • Label(s): Kingsley Godstime , Poems
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